


A Room with No View

by orphan_account



Series: Among the Stars [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Aphrodisiacs, Milking, Other, alternate universe - reverse petstuck, depending on how you read it, either very heavy dubcon or very light noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 16:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6813154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things could probably be worse, overall, for a human bred in captivity, at the mercy of trollish overlords. He just can't think of many ways that could be possible, at the moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Room with No View

This is your entire world.

You look around the room you’re in, a little bleary eyed. It isn’t small, enough for you to clip back and forth if you want to run, with high, albeit jagged, ceilings. But it’s all you’ve ever seen, and sometimes it strikes you how little it is.

Your name is Dave Strider, the latter of which comes from your generic breeding stock, the former of which the jadebloods assigned to you picked out. It’s shortened from Davian, the proper trollish name, you know that much. But you don’t understand what gave them the right to name you when they got to pick their own, or why they pretend you deserve something shorter to distinguish you as inferior.

Humans are always treated that way, though. You know as much from the grubtube videos that you’re allowed to watch on your not-very-monitored husktop – if a human isn’t a pet in a pirated television show, then it’s used to breed out, either fetish material tucked away in the dark corners of the internet or trolls cooing over their humans giving birth that aren’t.

The faces twisted in agony are always why you avoid those videos. You think they made a couple pop up on your feed to make sure you were grateful for the fact that all they use you for is egg incubation and genetic material gathering. Sad thing being, it kind of worked.

These thoughts hang heavy in your mind as you’re sitting on the pile of cushions that serve as your bed. You’ve seen human pets with actual beds, but you aren’t anybody’s pet. As much as the jadebloods on the ship coo over you themselves, they treat you just like any of the other numbers of harvesting stock aboard the Hestia.

You have clothes – you have a lot of clothes, actually, those jadebloods apparently have a lot of time on their hands and a lot of hands to work through time with – but they’ve been taken away at the moment. That’s all the warning they ever give you about what’s coming.

It’s funny. You’d think that trolls would question why humans seem to catch on to what’s happening, if you’re all supposed to be little more than trained monkeys, screeching out mangled Alternian. But then, again, maybe not.

Trolls don’t seem the questioning type.

The hydraulics of the door hiss, and you sit perfectly still. There’s no use in struggling for this, this was what they bred you for, and if anything, you’ve learned that trolls are very in to a place and purpose for everything.

“Dave?” the voice says. It’s something new, and you blink upwards reflexively, staring at the intruder into your respite block.

You can’t hide the surprise when he closes the door, and the light from the outside dims a little. Normally, they put humans through day and night cycles of light like everyone else, but you’re an exception – your eyes are weak, and bright light gives you blinding migraines that means you’re not useful for much. Too much stress and breeders can’t produce anything.

The troll – you’re pretty sure they’re a guy, but you never really know, they’ve got a lot of weird rules you can never get quite straight – is a little shocked to see you, too. You share an eye colour, though you’ve never seen a troll with human coloured blood.

“Are you a mutant?” you ask him, and his brow furrows. He thinks he’s trying to understand you, but he’s not. None of them really try.

“That’s right,” he says, unrelated, “I’m here to… Fuck. Why am I even talking to you?”

You understand the sentiment.

His nameplate says ‘Karkat Vantas’ when he gets close enough, and you grip it for a second to make sure you’ve read it right. He confuses that for pawing, they always do. Like most of them, he apparently assumes your interest comes from it being shiny, because you’re supposed to have the attention span of a goldfish with severe damage to the hippocampus.

“Hey fucker, that’s mine. Come on.” he prises it from your fingers, which is easy enough. When you look up at him, he’s hesitating, wondering what to do with his hands. Must be a new recruit, you think, only most of the jadebloods immediately start prodding you if they’ve never dealt with a human before, interested in if you’ll respond half as hilariously as they’ve been told.

One hand grips around your arm, pleasantly warm and dry. His cheeks colour some as he gets you to stand, can’t avoid looking you over curiously. You’re just staring at his hair, the way it catches a little red, even in the dim light. It’s easier than focusing on how his eyes are going to catch at your junk, always a fucking fascination for them.

You can only imagine how bad it would be if you only had a nook or a bulge. Thankfully, you’re genetically modified to have both, but it doesn’t stop them from staring all the same, every goddamn time you have to do this, regardless of how many times they’ve seen you naked.

“I, uh. Oh. I guess you know.” he grumbles, mostly to himself, as you decide you’ve had enough of the Genial Junk Gazing Hour and start to walk over to the bulky pod in the far corner of your room.

It’s a weird shape, not at all organic like your husktop or the couple game grubs they give you, but sleek and chrome, a dome shape that tapers off at the end. You stand in front of it and make a game out of trying to avert your own gaze in the reflection while your newest keeper comes over. They get angry when you punch in the coordinates yourself, like there’s some secret to it you couldn’t clearly see by the second time they did it. You guess it isn’t your purpose.

It takes the mutant - which you’re pretty sure he is by now, because he definitely acts all troll - a couple of seconds to fuss and fumble his way over to you. His thick fingers punch the code sequence in your peripheral vision.

“You must like this.” he mutters.

You don’t say anything.

The top of the chamber hisses open, and you turn to face him, standing there. A thick brow arches for a second, and you can see him open his mouth to ask what the fuck is wrong with you, before he suddenly remembers.

“Fucking – I knew I was going to mess something up in this miserable shit show.” he says, pulling a small vial from his pocket. He looks uncomfortable uncorking it, so you take it from between his fingers. He doesn’t relax, pulls a face as you pour it down your throat.

Trolls discovered a couple of things as they started to traverse the galaxy: one, that they were very good at fucking shit up; two, that they really liked fucking shit up; and three, that their genetic material was a powerful aphrodisiac to just about every species that they enslaved.

You discovered that when you were about six sweeps old, the recommended minimum age to start genetic material collection for human beings, in the most jarring way possible. Now, it’s just an old standby, something you know is coming whether you like it or not. And whether you like it or not, your body always responds.

Stepping into the pod is the easiest part out of all of it. It sequesters you from the world outside, and temporarily, you’re relieved to watch the face of whatever troll is outside your pod disappear.

The interior of it is comfortable, a soft pink light bathing everything in a rosy kind of glow. They make these for genetic material collection of trolls on battleships, but this one has been modified for a human. The cuffs you slide your wrists and ankles into are padded, small enough to hold you tight. There’s no way a troll could ever fit, even the teeny mutant outside is a head and a half taller than you are.

The chair you’re in starts to hum against your body, sensitizing you as the genetic material you drank starts to settle in. A high flush rises on your cheeks, down the back of your neck. You feel your pupils swell, and your heart pounds hard for a second as your body redirects blood flow.

In front of you, the sleek black of the screen fizzes to life. You can’t imagine they show trolls human pornos, but maybe they do. You don’t know. All you know is that there’s some kind of mechanism that will keep flipping through different instances based on how the rest of your body is reacting to it. It records tastes, too, you think – or at least, it takes a lot less time for it to sort you out nowanights.

 There’s no hiding from what this machine knows about you. It clearly remembers the way you came off last time, to the human who looked something like you, with pretty purple eyes and blonde hair. It doesn’t repeat her performance, there must be limited footage of that. But it gives you something awfully similar this time.

For a second, you think you’re looking at a weird version of yourself. And then you mark out that the freckles are different, and the eyes are orange instead of red, and his body is just a little more stretched out than yours is.

The reaction your body gives is almost instantaneous, seeing his pale limbs tied outwards, bound up on display; your cock twitches and your nook throbs, and you feel the other sections of the machine start to whir into action.

There are bulge attachments that come out – proper bulges, whiplike filaments that stretch and swell as they fill out. One twists around the more ridged, heavy bulk of your own bulge, the other curls up inside of you. You can’t stop the way you clench down around it, trying to wriggle even though you can’t move that much with the restraints holding you in.

You watch the human in front of you, already breathless. He looks so calm and cool on the other side of the screen, despite the fact that you can tell from his body he’s already been fed slurry. Even as his hair is pulled back and a wriggling blue mass is crawling into his mouth, he’s trying to hold it together –

That doesn’t work so well for you. Especially once the collection tubing comes out, the last part of the process. Normally, from what you’ve seen in basic school feeding clips about it, trolls are only ever induced with two – one for their bulge and one for their ovipositor. You don’t have an ovipositor and you still get three, because you’ve won an exciting genetic jackpot that allows humans to lactate.

You don’t have breasts, which as far as you know is where it normally comes from, but trolls are nifty at finding fun and exciting ways to make your life hell. Along with their aphrodisiac slurry, they’ve managed to cultivate an herb that gets mixed into your diet regularly. With that, and enough fondling by the pod, it’s no trouble at all to make you start to leak.

And that’s the thing – all the tubing is clear except the tips, which have some kind of spongy, organic feeling material inside of them. It pulses around your nipples and your bulge like a mouth, and you find yourself trying very, very hard to keep composed.

On the screen, your fair doppelganger is taking in two bulges, both fat and writhing and blue, barely able to fit in even the first third of them. But there are hands in his hair and on his head, and with his limbs bound so tight by so much chord, he has no choice but to try to swallow them down. Indigo and cerulean drip thick from his lips, and his cock jerks like he’s enjoying it.

Maybe he is. Drinking up extra slurry is a torture you can’t imagine, you’re halfway to bursting with how much you want right now, anyway. Your thighs are split in the seat and you’re arching as much as you can to let the tendril fucking you curve up just right, rub behind the base of your bulge inside you.

It makes you groan, and you let out a little whimper near the end as the suction at your nipples is finally starting to come away with something. Milk that they’ll use to feed human grubs and wrigglers, or that they’ll give to some fucked up troll nobility. For some reason, thinking about someone sucking it directly from you just makes it gush harder, and you lose yourself for a minute to the strange mix of pleasure and pain.

One of the bluebloods on the screen is grinding his bare heel against the pale boy’s cock. He doesn’t even try to muffle his own groan into it. His mouth works harder, more determined, stretched out as the bluebloods start to knot up outside of it. The torrent of genetic material he’s trying to drink is making him tear up, and he screams as he comes off beneath the crush of one of the blueblood’s feet –

Your head tosses from side to side, sweat rolling down the small of your back. Your body is already giving so much, and so turned on, and you keep looking at the boy in front of you, bound and spent and drenched in slurry. His eyes are glossy and his pupils are swollen so much that you can barely see any of the orange, and the tubing around your prick squeezes like the ring of his lips.

You don’t keep it together. You let yourself get ripped apart at the seams as you come undone, as you scream and bash your head backwards, trying to get something solid beneath you. Everything peels away, pares down to the tube around your bulge and the ones still suckling at your nipples and the tentacle up inside of your nook, curling and pressing and rubbing hard as you clench down around it.

The bulge firms up, thrusts up and down, a strictly human feature that makes you see stars. It keeps going until you come again, and again, until your vision goes half faded and you don’t even realize that your wrists and ankles have been released.

When the pod hisses open, you lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling. You’re still seeing that glassy, far gone look from the other boy’s face, like you’re staring at yourself right now. It’s only when you feel a pair of arms tentatively curl up under you that you remember where you are.

“Come on, you messed up little ape.” Karkat Vantas tells you, setting you down into your pile of cushions. He watches you breathe in and out, which is all you’re really capable of now, with a strange look like he pities you and is incredibly conflicted about it.

His paw reaches out towards you, then curls in on itself. He’s telling himself something on the inside, you guess, but you don’t really care. You don’t care when he straightens up, and walks out of your respite block, leaving you alone again.

Your name is Dave Strider.

This is your whole world. 


End file.
